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“Sorry, Hunter,” I’d said three weeks ago when our long drive toward an Indian Hot Springs camping ride ended with an unfixable flat five minutes down the trail. As we made the disappointing drive home, I promised him an as-soon-as-possible make-up ride.

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My mom is in town for Brenna’s kindergarten and Kayla’s high school graduations so instead of a long trip, we’ve come just fifteen minutes to the edge of town to ride up Rocky Canyon to camp somewhere on the ridge that should now be snow-free. Then we’ll zip home to join the festivities.

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When he slipped on his riding boots that fateful day, three weeks ago, we discovered Hunter had suddenly (it seemed) outgrown them. Like his motorcycle, it’s time to go bigger.

Finding the right, next motorcycle is complicated by a growth curve that leaves him inches too short for something in the 175 to 200cc range, otherwise the logical progression. I’m pretty sure he’ll have more fun on a bike he can man-handle than something too tall so we’ve stayed with the 110 a little longer.

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To invoke the phrase of every parent, it seems only days ago Hunter was begging for rides with me on the XR. We’d exit the driveway and return then circle the house a couple times — that was our big ride. It’s pretty cool that now we’re heading into the mountains for a night, each on our own motorcycle.

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“Be sure to stay on the right,” I remind him. “There will probably be traffic up here.”

After pausing a moment to look back over Boise from Aldape Summit, Hunter and I continue along the ridge. We pass by a man at a wide spot with a small child seated ahead of him on his motorcycle, in the same way I once gave those little rides to Hunter, Laura and my youngest brother Jesse.¹ Following him are two young girls riding together on an ATV.

We exchange waves before I see Hunter’s helmet and teenage brain turn and lock on to the girls, preventing him from noticing the small rut ahead. He almost wipes out right there in front of them and I hope he doesn’t hear the girls giggling.

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I enjoy watching Hunter learn as I follow behind him. He rides higher and higher up roadside banks where others have left tracks, what I called side-hills as a kid. I cringe a bit when he aims for the middle of every puddle, knowing they sometimes have surprises. And finally one does get him — mud and water up to his pegs, he almost doesn’t make it through.

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“If you see something you want to check out,” I tell Hunter, “go for it.” He leads us down one road and then another where we find a large camp area among tall evergreens, clear and level, with sites for six or seven groups, all empty.

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“Can I ride my motorcycle or no,” Hunter asks after dinner. I’ve noticed the “or no” he adds with descending tone to every question lately. While he can draw our ire by repeatedly making the same denied request, like most kids, are we leading him to assume rejection?

“Yeah Hunter, you can ride anytime you want out here,” I answer enthusiastically. This is the quintessential place for it.

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Previous camping-folk have left ample materials for fire experiments Hunter dutifully carries out. Does a clear bottle glow the same way a brown bottle does when heated? The answer is yes. Is a motorcycle glove insulation enough to grab glowing metal? I already the knew the answer to that one. Now Hunter does too.

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While Hunter is off riding, I brew more coffee (okay, pour powder in hot water), put some music on the phone and jot down a few notes for the eventual write-up. No hurries and no worries. It’s very peaceful.

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The first climb out of the Daggett drainage is steep and now deeply rutted by channels of water diverted from somewhere above. One rut is four feet deep. I avoid that spot then run back down to where I told Hunter to wait and ride his 110 up. Well not actually “ride” — I run alongside it since it gets wedged in even the shallower ruts.

A second climb is equally steep with steps instead of ruts. I struggle to keep the front tire on the ground and stall the motor trying to ease the back tire over a tall root. I know I’ll be riding the 110 up this too.

Or that’s what I fully expect so I’m flabbergasted when Hunter pulls up behind me. He didn’t wait for a “good to go!” or anything. He just hit it. I’m impressed.

“I can’t believe you just rode up that!” I yell to him. I can’t tell in his helmet if he’s smiling. I hope so.

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“Turn your motor off and coast down long hills,” I tell Hunter when we reach the ridge again. I have no idea how far the TTR can go on reserve. “When you see you’ll need power again,” I continue, “start the motor while you’re still coasting.”

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Hunter manages his motor just as I prescribed. I want to tell him how impressed I am with his riding today. “I hope he doesn’t do something frustrating to spoil it,” I think to myself. As soon as I have the thought I feel ashamed. I’m the one who decides to be frustrated. I can’t put that on Hunter.